


Følelser

by SnowSmith



Series: Kjoret + Ayrenn [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Bi, Elder Scrolls - Freeform, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lesbian, Nord, OC, OC character - Freeform, Romance, Skyrim - Freeform, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tamriel, Vestige - Freeform, elder scrolls online - Freeform, eső, high elf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 11:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowSmith/pseuds/SnowSmith
Summary: Ayrenn Aldmeri, a princess-on-the-run, spends some of her adventuring days in Skyrim. The story follows her life before becoming Queen, as she cultivates a relationship with a Nord named Kjoret.





	Følelser

She had wanted ‘different,’ but _Stars_ , she didn’t think it would be _this_ different. Ayrenn swept some of her blonde hair from her eyes. Snowflakes had caught on her eyelashes as the wooden schooner slowly plowed through the icy expanse of the Sea of Ghosts. It was called Ysgramor’s Axe — a fitting name for an icebreaker ship. Ice popped as the metal hull on the vessel cracked even the thickest ice into shards that were then pushed out of the way as they sailed.

 

The blizzard had passed, allowing for Ayrenn to brave the temperatures above-deck. It had slowed their progress towards Windhelm, keeping many of the landmarks hidden from view. From her porthole, she had barely been able to see the dark silhouette of the College of Winterhold from a distance through the swirling flakes. Ayrenn made a mental note to try and visit the College at some point during her time in Skyrim. _Perhaps they had knowledge of spells that even the Direnni weren’t familiar with,_ she thought. She was comfortable with using magicka and had even cast fire spells on more than one occasion in order to keep warm during some of the nights when just the fire in her hearth didn’t suffice.

 

Years spent living with the Direnni had made them feel like a second family to Ayrenn. She had spent nearly the same amount of time learning the art of war on the Isle of Balfiera as she had during her childhood on Summerset. Nine years, but one thing remained the same: Ayrenn was still a princess on the run. Tamriel had more to offer than solely the tropical shores touched by the Abecean Sea.

 

The crunching of ice had finally dissipated once the icebreaker schooner entered the protected waters of the White River. Only a handful of ice floats occupied the fast-flowing waterway. As the harbor neared, Ayrenn could pick out individuals unloading crates, lumber, and salmon from the other vessels tied at the docks. Seagulls squawked, eagerly hoping one of the fish would flop loose for the taking. Gentle ripples rocked the docked boats, causing them to tug at their mooring ropes. Something about the scene excited Ayrenn. There had hardly been anything to look at other than the endless expanse of water and ice for weeks. Windhelm would offer something new, a fresh start.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon was spent exploring the city she would call home for the next several months. Not far from the docks, several tucked-away buildings hosted the majority of the city’s crafters. Ayrenn doubted she would be visiting the woodworker’s shop; shields, bows, and staves weren’t her ideal style. Nothing could beat the feeling of a sharp blade. To stay unpredictable, she wielded magic in her free hand, which provided the lethal combination of close and ranged attacks in combat.

 

The next building she neared had an alchemy sign hung out front, and Ayrenn decided to enter and shop around. The emporium specialized in enchantments and alchemy ingredients. Shelves on the wall displayed various alchemy reagents, all divided into sections for plants, animal parts, and minerals. Each section was further organized alphabetically. Grabbing a burlap satchel, Ayrenn browsed, selecting a general variety of reagents she was most familiar with, columbine, lady’s smock… moving over to the next section, she picked a handful of butterfly wings.

 

Her focus was interrupted by the sharp creak of the double wood doors being slammed open.

 

“Hafka! What’s wrong?” The shopkeeper asked the Nord woman who had burst into the shop.

 

“Mjorn,” Hafka allowed herself to catch her breath before continuing, “Damned horker lost another brawl over at the Sober Nord. This time the snowback managed to break his arm.” The Nord woman was calm, seemingly having encountered similar situations before. Her eyes flashed with amusement, “Want to know the best part? He didn’t even break his arm _during_ the fight. Mjorn took a hit so hard to the jaw he stumbled into an unopened cask of mead… he fell with the barrel landing right on top of him.”

 

“Doesn’t he call himself ‘Mead-Drinker’?”

 

“Aye. The mead finally got its revenge. A few of the more sober men managed to get him over to the Mages Guild. The man’s drunk, confused, and frantic. I have my apprentice watching over him, but I need to subdue him to reset the bone before he runs off and does something else stupid.”

 

“Take whatever you need, Hafka. You do this city far too much good to pay every time you come in for supplies,” the Nord apothecary replied.

 

“Thank you again, Falwyn! Come over for dinner sometime, aye?” Hafka suggested, already out the door and running back toward the Guildhall.

 

Falwyn shook her head, smiling, as Ayrenn tentatively approached the counter. “Sorry you had to be here for that,” the shopkeeper apologized.

 

“Sounds like this happens often?” Ayrenn put her satchel on the counter for Falwyn to take inventory and give her a total for the purchase.

 

“Often enough. Mjorn gets himself into trouble at the Sober Nord plenty. Between you and me, I think the only reason they keep letting him come back is because he provides entertainment and the bartender gets to tell the stories. You new to Windhelm? 70 gold, by the way.”

 

Ayrenn counted out her coins, placing them on the counter, while the apothecary tied the satchel closed with a leather strip. “Just arrived. Any recommendations where I should stay?”

 

“Cold-Moon Inn, right past the forge, near the stables with the same name. And welcome to Windhelm, I promise you’ll get used to the drunks.”

 

* * *

 

Ayrenn followed the ring of a hammer on an anvil as she strolled further into the city. The forge was impossible to miss. Dominating the central marketplace was an open-walled building filled with tanning racks, bellows, metal scraps, and a roaring fire. She weaved her way between several drunkards stumbling around and decided to cut through the blacksmith’s workplace on her way to the inn. Despite the lack of formal walls, the structure provided a generous amount of warmth from the harsher elements outside. Taking a seat on one of the benches near a small fireplace, Ayrenn watched the commotion of the workers.

 

A woman near the entrance toiled away on the hide of some large animal — a saber cat by the look of the pattern on the coat. The source of the ringing noise was a man finishing up a warhammer. His gloved hand lifted it up with ease and plunged it into the tub of water nearby. A different pair of gloved hands removed the warhammer from the sizzling water. The girl carrying the weapon caught Ayrenn’s eye. Most everyone who she had encountered in Windhelm so far was older… and drunker. This girl appeared to be of similar age. She wore a simple cotton jerkin, tied around the waist with a knotted sash. Leather leggings made their way into the strapped boots she wore that went slightly above the shins. Curly hair. Brunette. Strong — Ayrenn caught herself staring. Too late. The Nord girl turned away from the weapon rack she had hung the hammer on and met her gaze. Ayrenn’s eyes dashed away. _Don’t stare! You’re the outsider here. Why were you staring? Gods! Stop it,_ she chided herself. The Nord gave a nod of acknowledgment and returned to her work. Sighing a breath of relief, Ayrenn got up from the bench and decided to find the inn.

 

* * *

 

Wiping down the bar counter was a redheaded Nord woman who introduced herself as Innsold. She confirmed that several rooms were vacant, provided Ayrenn didn’t mind a room in the loft. After paying her fare for the upcoming week, she decided to try a mug of mead, the honeyed drink that the locals raved over.

 

The tavern that occupied the first floor of the inn was crowded. Men and women of all ages filtered in, eager for a drink after their long day of labor. Accompanying them wasn’t the most pleasant smell, but for the most part, the tang of dried sweat was masked by scented candles placed on tables and windowsills. A bard played her lute and sang a ballad about someone with the power to talk to dragons. As her song wrapped up, Ayrenn tossed a gold coin her way, then approached a round game table which seated three grisly-looking older men. Two were Nords, one of which had an impressive, bushy, grey beard, the other man had a face shadowed by the hood he wore. The third man was an Imperial. Their game of dice paused, surprised by the interruption from a youthful Altmer woman.

 

“Long way from home, lass,” commented the bearded Nord.

 

“I could say the same about your Imperial friend here, too,” Ayrenn retorted.

 

The Imperial soldier snorted in drunken amusement. “This one’s feisty. But does she have skill?” He finished, gesturing with his head towards the dice cupped in his hand.

 

“What are you playing?”

 

“Prophet’s Dice. Place a bet against one of us, and if they agree to the wager, roll these two dice. You total your score, and then the other person takes their turn. If your total is higher than theirs, you get their gold. If it’s lower or equal, you lose the bet. As long as you are on a win streak, you can keep rolling and placing bets.”

 

“Sounds easy enough,” Ayrenn agreed, “I’ll show you that your game is not skill, but luck — and yours is about to run out.”

 

“Listen to this lass!” The bearded Nord hooted in response to Ayrenn’s boastful comment.

 

“The name’s Ayrie. _Not_ ‘lass.’”

 

“Aye, but names here are earned, not given… _lass._ I am Bjorvir Frosthammer, my brother here is Belrik. Our Imperial friend is Teinus.” Ayrenn resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose… she would have to get used to remembering these sometimes-ridiculous titles which apparently meant so much to the Nords. Pulling a stool underneath her, she sat to join in their game.

 

“I still get my turn to roll!” Teinus reminded the group. “Ayrie, let’s start with 15 gold.” He slid a stack of coins forward and waited until Ayrenn did the same. He rolled, “Eight.”

 

Taking the dice from him, Ayrenn took her turn. “10.” Smirking at Teinus, she left all 30 coins in the center. “Belrik,” The other Nord looked up from the wealth of gold he had accumulated. His appearance was nothing like his brother’s; he lacked the beard and braids that Bjorvir proudly wore. His dark eyes met Ayrenn’s and he nodded, sliding forward 30 more coins. Ayrenn shook the dice, “11.” Belrik was quiet after his roll and simply crossed his arms as Ayrenn reached to grab the 60 coins from the center of the table. “Pass,” she finished, and let Belrik take the lead to win some of his money back.

 

* * *

 

The game continued on for a while, Ayrenn’s luck had turned from her initial winning streak. Somehow the pile of gold Belrik amassed had tripled, she was sure. It came to her turn once again, yet she had little to wager. She had only 20 coins now. At best, Ayrenn could bet it all and hope that Stendarr would grant her luck so that she might come out on top. Looking back, she realized she had been reckless with her bet placements; she still needed gold to pay for her extended stay in Windhelm, after all. Perhaps there was still a way she could make some gold without losing any —

 

“Teinus,” Ayrenn grabbed the entire table’s attention when she withdrew her sword from its scabbard at her waist. “I’ll wager my sword if you wager yours.”

 

“Lass,” Bjorvir Frosthammer interjected, “I thought I told you we place bets with gold.”

 

“It’s Ayrie. And you also said that the other person has to agree to the wager. So, Teinus, do you agree to my bet?”

 

“Reckless girl, but you know a way to a soldier’s heart. I can’t say no to the opportunity to win an adamantium sword.” He unsheathed his own sword, made of quality steel. While it wasn’t made of as rare of a material as Ayrenn’s, selling it would fetch a hefty sum of gold.

 

Ayrenn fidgeted with the dice in her palm. With the subtlest movement, she cast a telekinesis spell on the dice. She rolled, controlling their movements with her mind, making them land on something that would set her up to win, yet still be believable. “11.”

 

Belrik and Bjorvir Frosthammer leaned forward with interest. Teinus exhaled slowly, cupped the dice in his hand, and exaggerated the time it took to shake the pair. When he finally tossed them onto the table, he broke into a wide grin. “12.”

 

Ayrenn downed the rest of her mug of mead. “Auri-El’s breath!” Her curse earned a slight chuckle from the men. She hadn’t actually expected to lose her sword. While she didn’t want to part with it, she supposed it would at least still see use and glory in the hands of a soldier. She rose from the table to take her leave. “I’m afraid I have nothing left to wager, and on that note, I will retire for the evening. I appreciate letting me join in the gambling.”

 

Teinus was admiring his new sword when Bjorvir Frosthammer raised his mug in mock salute, “Anytime, lass, don’t be shy!”

 

“I’ll be around. Likely coming back for my sword,” Ayrenn returned the jest.

 

She climbed the wooden stairs to her lofted bedroom. Blowing out the nightstand candle, she lied back on her bed. 20 gold pieces to her name. Swordless. _The Nord girl from the forge likely has a remedy for that—_ Ayrenn closed her eyes and smiled to herself. _Things still have time to fall into place. Maybe Stendarr gave me a stroke of luck after all._


End file.
